


New Kind Of Highs

by Aleta123



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 22:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11389908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleta123/pseuds/Aleta123
Summary: Bridget returns to Hard News where an unexpectedly significant assignment makes her personal and professional worlds collide. This movies universe story is set post-Bridget Jones’s Baby and contains spoilers for all three films, including references to deleted scenes. I have not read Mad About The Boy (no plans to do so. Ever) ergo certain particulars in that book are absent here. My notes contain a crucial spoiler so best to read at the end. Disclaimer: All credit to Helen Fielding for her creation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Thursday 19 May**

**4.51pm. Our house.**

**  
** Contemplation.  
  
Various events in the last couple of years have, for me, underlined how life can have a bloody warped sense of humour at times.  
  
What are the odds, for example, of two exes meeting at a memorial service and then at a christening where five years of lust delayed results in: a) fantastic sex with rubbish condoms and b) an adorable accident?  
  
Exactly.  
  
Our adorable accident is currently in the land of Nod in his nursery upstairs.  
  
And since Will’s birth, Mark Darcy and I have racked up 14 shattering, exhausting, exciting, emotional, heavenly months of parenting.  
  
During that time, we’ve lived together, got engaged and married, sold Mark’s house in Ealing, rented out my old flat in Borough, bought our new family home in Holland Park and clocked up 1,124 ecstatic shags.  
  
Not counting the post-birth times we satisfied each other without penetration . . .   
  
Still miss my Borough pad, but Holland Park means Will’s schooling will be in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. Absolutely fabulous, dahhhhling! Hope that doesn’t sound too Smug Mummy but reality is these are the sort of things self has to think about now. Funnily enough, was just talking about some—  
  
Ooooh, mobile ringing!  
  
Oh, it’s Mum.  
  
Deep breath.  
  
“Hello, Mum.”  
  
“Hello, darling. How’s my gorgeous grandson?”  
  
I smiled. “As gorgeous as ever. Wait until you see him, he’s grown so much. I’ve just put him down for an afternoon nap.”  
  
“And how are the newlyweds?”  
  
I frowned. “Who got married?” And then it hit me. “Oh, you mean us. Strange to hear ourselves described that way.”  
  
“You’ve only been married for two months, Bridget. This is still the honeymoon phase.”  
  
“I know, but we were living together and raising our baby long before we got anywhere near that aisle.”  
  
“You young people nowadays - you do everything backwards.” She tutted disapprovingly, as if I was 13 again and she’d caught me trying to sneak out the house in ripped jeans.  
  
“It’s just the way things turned out,” I said with an involuntary shrug of the shoulders. This would be hilarious if I wasn’t well over 40 years of age.   
  
“I had to wait until my wedding night before I saw what your father had hidden in his Y-fronts. The first time we played hide the sausage, he nearly put it in the wrong hole.”  
  
YUCK! Mum and Dad shagging. Yuck-yuck-yuck! Have to change the subject.  
  
“How is Dad?”  
  
“He’s well. We can’t wait to see you all next Saturday.”  
  
Glanced at the baby monitor and said, “I hope the good weather lasts for the drive up.”  
  
“Two months of being married, Bridget. Mrs Darcy - how well it sounds! Surely only a matter of time before it’s Lady Darcy,” Mum gushed. “Did I tell you that at our parish council meeting, Margot Pennyfeather asked about your wedding? ‘A delightful thing to have my daughter married at last to Mark Darcy QC. They live in Holland Park now. Elton John has a home there. And the Beckhams,’ I told her.”  
  
And now that I’m married to him, her life’s mission is complete. But I’m sure she’ll find another one for me . . .  
  
“I’m looking forward to coming up, Mum. We want Will to spend a lot of time in Grafton Underwood with his grandparents.”  
  
“Oh, the little darling! Bridget, Una and I were talking yesterday . . .”  
  
Aha. Here it comes. What haven’t I done this time?  
  
“Are you still having your periods, darling?”  
  
What the actual fuck? She’s seriously asking if I’m still on the blob?  
  
“Mum! I can’t believe—” I started to say.  
  
“I’m just wondering if I can prepare for another grandchild. Mavis Enderbury has three.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“Are you and Mark trying to get pregnant again, darling?”  
  
Bloody hell! It never ends. When I was single, I had to get a boyfriend. When I got a boyfriend, I had to get married. Now that I’m married, I have to produce a litter.  
  
Exasperated, I said, “Mum, we’re not trying to get pregnant and we’re not trying to not get pregnant.”  
  
“Well, Una showed me how to do the gongling on the internet and you—”  
  
“I think you mean googling.”  
  
“—need deep penetration positions every time you and Mark have a bit of how’s your father; his little soldiers need to shoot right up next to your cervix for grandchild number two. You should really—”  
  
“Mother! You’re not The Kama Sutra. I don’t need—”  
  
“—be doing this doggy thing I saw. But don’t search for the doggy position, you wouldn’t believe the pictures that came up. Una and I nearly had heart attacks! That wasn’t the—”  
  
“Mother! I have to go now. Will’s crying. I’ll call you later. Goodbye.”  
  
I pray to anyone who’s listening up there, please don’t let me mortify Will in the way my mother mortifies me. Please. Pretty please.  
  
Deep breath.  
  
Anyway, reading back over a couple of this month’s entries is what sparked my contemplation. Thinking about it all, self has to conclude life has a fuck of a warped sense of humour at times . . . 

  
*******

**  
Wednesday 4 May**

**4.05 pm. Hard News Studios. Hair and makeup.**

 

Am into my third day freelancing at my old job. Got to love the irony! Must say, feels as if self has never been away.  
  
Well, almost.  
  
“Malice Peabody called today’s interviewee ‘fuckable’ so that tells you everything you need to know, Miranda.”  
  
She laughed. “OMG, don’t let Alice hear you calling her that, Bridge!”  
  
“It’s Malice,” I countered with a grin. “Get it right.”  
  
Love being with Miranda again, but miss Will desperately and am suffering odd twinge of guilt about placing him in a nursery even if it is the best one Mark Darcy’s money can buy.  
  
“But would I be a rubbish mother or a rubbish woman?” I had asked Mark with a heavy sigh as we discussed all the options.  
  
“Darling, if you’d like to go back to work – that’s fine. And if you want to stay home with William, that’s also perfectly fine,” he answered. “You’re not letting down the feminists among your gender just because you love our son. It’s your decision and I will wholeheartedly support whichever one you ultimately make.”  
  
“So if I go back to work and put Will in a nursery, you won’t be disappointed?”  
  
“Being a working mum will not make you any less of a wonderful mother. We’re both very lucky to have you.”  
  
His words warmed me. “You make it sound so easy, Mark.”  
  
“I hope that’s a good thing.”  
  
“Oh, it most definitely is.”  
  
We watched our son as he tottered towards us, happily chattering away. When Will finally reached the sofa, Mark gathered him up into his arms. He kissed our child and beamed.  
  
“Thank goodness you didn’t check the expiry date of those bloody dolphin-friendly condoms, Bridget.”  
  
“He’s such a gorgeous boy. Still can’t believe what we made.” I smiled into Mark’s eyes.  
  
“Aren’t we clever?” he replied.  
  
What we have now is a million miles away from what we had in the final troubled months of our first engagement.  
  
It’s like the difference between night and day.  
  
Will turned out to be the missing jigsaw piece, completing our heartfelt love for each other and making us both – Mark especially - refocus our priorities.  
  
“Five years without you. Five whole years. What a bloody, stupid arse I was,” he’d told me the night we brought Will home from hospital. “I came too close to losing you forever, to losing us forever. That will never happen again,” he vowed.  
  
Knowing I had Mark’s support, I signed on with an employment agency. Last week, Joanna my recruitment consultant rang to say she had a booking for Hard News. She either didn’t know about the General Lu Tong fiasco or didn’t care. Can only surmise commission is commission is commission.  
  
“You’ll never guess where they’re sending me on Monday,” I told Mark as we watched Will beat up his Paw Patrol pillow pet.  
  
“Where?” he queried.  
  
“Hard News.”  
  
Mark glanced away from Will to look at me. “Crikey. Will you be OK?”  
  
“You should worry about Alice Peabody instead,” I joked in a lame attempt to reassure him. And myself.  
  
He knew what I was doing and played along. “You’re right, darling. Vultures are already circling her carcass. She’ll be no match for you, Bridget.”  
  
I smiled and pecked his cheek. “You have this bloody good knack of saying exactly what I need to hear, exactly when I need to hear it.”  
  
He spoils me with his love. Love being spoiled. Have a very, very, very nice husband – don’t care if that makes self sound like a Smug Married.  
  
Actions speak louder than words so to express my love and gratitude, I decided to let my body do the talking. When we shagged that night, I milked my insatiable sex-god dry.  
  
“Christ,” he gasped when I climbed off him and plopped down on the bed. “I came so hard, I can’t remember my own name.”  
  
“It’s Gareth Taylor,” I said as we laughed and kissed. A little later, Mark moved on top of me.  
  
“Again, Mr Darcy? Already?” I smiled and wrapped my arms around his neck.  
  
“It’s your turn to forget your name,” he murmured before lowering his mouth to my boobs. Mmmmmmmm.  
  
That was how I decided to resume my career. Mark had made it easier for me by being his usual thoughtful self.  
  
So here I am, Bridget Darcy - formerly Bridget Jones - former Hard News producer back at Hard News alongside Malice Peabody, Richard Finch, Miranda Levine and the rest of the crew.  
  
Still feel guilty about leaving Will with strangers (comparatively speaking) to return to work.  
  
But also feel a tad guilty about not wanting to leave Will with strangers (comparatively speaking) to return to work. Feel like an affront to all those women’s libbers who fought for our rights.  
  
Can’t win.  
  
However, found a workable solution. Decided to work only three days a week: no Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays or Sundays. Hurrah!  
  
Marked my last weekend of freedom with a marvellous family outing; we took Will to the Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Playground on Saturday (We still love you, People’s Singleton! Poor Princess Diana). The next day, as the good weather continued with blazing sunshine, we spent hours together in our garden.  
  
Once or twice, even managed to forget I was going back to work.  
  
But the clock ticked down and Monday arrived sooner than we both wanted. As usual, I took Will to nursery in the morning. However our new regime meant Mark had to pick him up, which he did at just a few minutes before six.  
  
Got home after seven and immediately headed to the nursery where I found Mark changing Will’s nappy for bed. “How did it go, darling?” he asked.  
  
To be honest, my first day back probably went smoothly because Malice was on annual leave.  
  
When I pushed open the control room door, Richard Finch boomed out a warm greeting: “Bridget bloody Jones! You’re a sight for sore eyes on a miserable Monday morning. Glad you’re back. C’mere.”  
  
Stepped into his embrace and gave him the tightest of hugs. “Richard, you lovely old sod. I’ve missed you.”  
  
“You look good. More importantly, the boobs feel good. Please tell me you’re divorced now?”  
  
“Very happily married with a son who’s nearly 14-months-old,” I genially replied.  
  
“Just because you’re a happily married mother doesn’t mean you won’t have it off with me one day. Right?”  
  
“Wrong,” I smiled. “Same old Richard. You’re a sweetheart.”  
  
“‘A sweetheart’? Oh, puke. Fucking friendzoned again.”  
  
I gave him a friendly poke on the shoulder. “What’s been happening? What have I missed?”  
  
His brow furrowed in thought. “Remember Lucy the floor manager? The Welsh brunette?”  
  
“Ermmm, yes I think so.”  
  
“Alice caught her doing coke in the ladies last Christmas so she got fired.”  
  
“No-ooooooo! Little Lucy?” I cried, scandalised.  
  
“Yep. Your old mate Cathy left just before Christmas. But I’m sure you know about that. And Alice continues to make us the Buzzfeed of TV.”  
  
Rolled my eyes. “Great.”  
  
“Last week, Miranda interviewed the train-travelling pensioner who tweeted for help after getting stuck in a toilet on the Watford to Euston service.”  
  
“Yes, she told me about that after drowning her sorrows in enough vodka shots to sink the navy.”  
  
“The less said about it, the better. But take a look at Wednesday’s interviewee. This one’s a good ‘un.”  
  
Richard showed me the planner on his tablet. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I looked at him in astonishment.  
  
“Impressive, eh?” he grinned.  
  
“Well. That’s one word for it,” I responded. “I’ll leave you to it. Am heading to the hot desks in case you need me, Richard.”  
  
Mind reeling, somehow got through the rest of the day knowing this week would be a huge challenge and, once again, I would have to talk to Mark.

**  
  
4.25 pm. Hard News Studios. Hair and makeup.**

  
Gossip session with Miranda during a break in our shift. Just like old times. The hair and makeup girl told us she needed the loo and popped out.  
  
“Strange being in here and not hearing Cathy go on and on about gang bangs,” I said as I watched her replacement go.  
  
“Simone’s a sweetie. She takes fuckable me and makes me look extra-fuckable.”  
  
“Is that even possible?” I smirked.  
  
“Third day back, Bridge. How’s it going?”  
  
“It’s going. And you didn’t finish telling me about Michael.”  
  
“Ancient history.”  
  
“You met him last week, Miranda!”  
  
“Too clingy. Unresolved mummy issues,” she said with a shrug. “But last night I was on Tinder and two hours later, I hooked up my strap-on for this very rich investment banker who wanted—”  
  
“To suck your dick?”  
  
“Oh, he did that too.”  
  
“Not after you’d stuck it up his arse?” I asked, genuinely grossed-out by the thought.  
  
“No, before. But he was so kinky that if I’d told him to, I reckon he would’ve sucked it after I’d fucked him.”  
  
“Urgh. Maybe you should be the one writing a book: The Scion, The Bitch and The Dildo.”  
  
“Hah! I’d make millions from my shafting exploits: The Chronicles Of Nirvana has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”  
  
“And after coining it in, you could tell Malice to stick her job up her arse.”  
  
We giggled like naughty schoolgirls and then I remembered I was playing hostess later this week. “By the way, you’re still coming to dinner on Friday, right?”  
  
Miranda smoothed down her hair. “You’re still not cooking, right? I’ll be there.”  
  
“Oi, you bitch! I do a mean roast chicken now as long as I don’t have to handle it when it’s raw.”  
  
“And it’s OK if I bring a guest?”  
  
“Of course. Got anyone in mind?”  
  
“Mr Dildo. Might give him another go after dinner,” she said as she scanned her mobile.  
  
“Please tell me you know his name, Miranda! I’m not calling him ‘Mr Dildo’.”  
  
“Of course I know his name! It’s Edgar . . . Or is it Edmund?”  
  
“Miranda!”  
  
“Edward. His name is Edward,” she said with a snigger. “I like the parallels here, Bridge: I’m shagging a man who’s had a dildo up his arse and you’re shagging a man who’s got a poker up his arse.”  
  
“You are not comparing my darling husband to one of your weirdo shags!”  
  
“OK, OK. You’re shagging your precious Mark . . . who’s got a poker up his arse.”  
  
“That’s better. And you’re wrong about the poker; Mark’s just a bit socially awkward at times.”  
  
“Ever make him wear the wig and gown in bed?”  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I answered smugly.  
  
“Yes! That’s why I’m asking.”  
  
On the one hand, really want to boast to friends in deep detail about Mark’s incredible sexual stamina and our amazingly passionate shags, but on the other hand, ever since Tom’s “just as she is” toast years ago, am a bit more careful about info I dish out.  
  
The male ego being what it is, one part of Mark would probably love being described as an insatiable sex-god. But if it got back to him – and knowing my friends, it wouldn’t stay a secret – another part of him would probably be embarrassed.  
  
I dusted off my skirt. “Just remember it’s dinner with me and Mark on Friday so please be on your best behaviour.”  
  
“Yes, Mum. Can’t wait to see your new house.”  
  
“I’m still getting used to it,” I admitted. “There’s so much space – you could fit my old flat in it.”  
  
“Can’t wait for Friday. But before then, what’s all this five minutes bollocks about? One of the biggest stories in recent weeks and we get only five minutes?”  
  
“He gave the exclusive to the Daily Mail and they’re also going to publish extracts from his forthcoming book,” I told her. “The deal’s said to be worth loads of money – that means he’ll hold back on the goodies. Not sure how much you’ll be able to squeeze out of him for Hard News.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Bridge. Squeezing stuff out of men is my speciality,” she said with a wicked smile.  
  
“Dirty cow,” I grinned. “He’ll love that.”  
  
“Thanks for the pointer. Got any more?”  
  
It wasn’t what she said, it was the way she said it. “Are you thinking about doing what I think you’re thinking about doing?”  
  
“I most definitely am thinking about it: he’s rich, he’s good-looking and he’s straight. What’s not to think about?”  
  
“You’re incorrigible. And you give women a good name.”  
  
“Do you think you’ll make an appearance in his book, Bridge?”  
  
“God, I fucking hope not! I’ve had my 15 minutes of fame and it’s more than enough. Anyway, it’s not an autobiography. It’s a tale of survival.”  
  
Miranda turned up her nose. “Who wants to read that crap? Zzzzzzzz! Yawn. Boring. I hate to go all Alice Peabody on you but I want the dirt.”  
  
“I am so not surprised.”  
  
“Give,” she commanded.  
  
“I gave!” I indignantly replied.  
  
“You worked with him, he gave you a good shafting and he cheated on you. That’s what you told me and that tiny morsel wouldn’t feed an ant, Bridge.”    
  
“He’s an ex who makes me laugh. What more do you think there is?”  
  
“What’s he like in bed?”  
  
“Really bloody good. I came every single time, but sex was never the problem. He’s an excellent shag and an atrocious boyfriend. Dictionary definition of an emotional fuckwit.”  
  
“Is he better than Mark?”  
  
Absolutely not. He satisfied me sexually but he never satisfied me emotionally. From one day to the next, I never really knew where I stood with him – except sexually.  
  
“How come everyone asks me that?” Even the two bloody men in question have asked me that.  
  
Miranda shrugged. “Enquiring minds. You told me about the significant others in your life - it’s only natural to ask who’s got the biggest dick.”  
  
“That’s not what you asked.”  
  
“Come the fuck on, Bridget! At the very least, it’s what I implied.”  
  
“Then the answer would be me, Miss Dildo,” I winked.  
  
“Spoilsport.” She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll wait for his book to come out. You’d better hope I don’t ask him live on air.”  
  
“Malice would love that,” I said. “Not long to go now. A word of warning: he’s very flirty so stay focused.”  
  
At that moment, there was a quick tapping noise followed by Josh the production assistant. “Sorry to interrupt, but no comment from the Met’s press officer yet, Bridget.”  
  
Miranda glanced at me quizzically.  
  
“Police officer jailed for selling steroids to teenagers,” I said in answer to her silent question. “Keep on it, Josh. I might need a live link later.”  
  
“Will do. Have you got a minute to take a quick look at the VT of the burglar who got his bum trapped in the window of the house he was attempting to burgle?”  
  
Our gossip session was over. “See you in a sec, Miranda.”  
  
As Josh and I hit the corridor, I heard a familiar voice . . .  
  
“Jones! You dirty, dirty bitch.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday 3 May**

**5.22 pm. Hard News newsroom.**

  
Nearly went the entire second day without bumping into Malice but, of course, it had to happen. And it happened 10 minutes ago.  
  
Conversation went like this.  
  
MALICE: (brusquely) Heard you were back, Bridget. Couldn’t believe it. You’re harder to get rid of than the tax man – and just as welcome.  
  
ME: Good to see you too. I’m back to prove a point and, thanks to legal advice from my husband Mark Darcy QC, here I am, mmmmmm . . . Alice.  
  
MALICE: There’s still time for you to mess it all up. Yet again. Might put a bet on it although I’m actually excited about tomorrow’s guest: relevant, likeable and extremely fuckable. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?  
  
ME: (treacly sweet) Oh, he’s a fucker alright. Should be an interesting interview.  
  
MALICE: (sneering) I know it’s been a while since you worked here, but ‘interesting’ is not what I want at Hard News, Bridget. If I want ‘interesting’ – and I don’t – I watch BBC News. And I don’t watch BBC News. We’re not doing news to snooze to at Hard News. Remember that when your ex is sitting on the sofa.  
  
And with that, she turned on her heel and stomped away.  
  
Gaaaaaah! Who the fuck told her about me and Daniel?!? Bet it was Kelly - that sarky redhead stick insect hasn’t liked me since Sit Up Britain days. Pretty certain Daniel shagged her back when she was the receptionist.  
  
Not that I really give a shit. I’m married to Mark and we have our son. Nothing else matters . . . until tomorrow’s interview. 

**  
  
5.45 pm. Mansion House Underground Station.**

  
  
Day two down, and what a day! Almost wish I still smoked. Mind going a mile a minute as there is so much . . .  Oooh! Like her shoes.  
  
**5.47 pm.** Dying to hug and kiss Will.  
  
**5.48 pm.** What to cook on Friday?  
  
**5.49 pm.** Shag flashback! Mmmmm . . . Mark’s tongue . . .  Mmmmm . . .  He’s so good at . . . Mmmmm.  
  
**5.51 pm.** Busy station. As usual.  
  
**5.52 pm.** Shit. When is playdate with Tom, Jude and Shazzer’s kids?  
  
**5.53 pm.** Will stop off at Tesco when I get to Holland Park Station – need a glass of wine. Have to tell Mark tonight. Can’t put it off any longer.  
  
Ticket barrier queue moving more quickly. Hurrah!  
  
Bugger! Where is Oyster card? Where is it? Where? Where? WHERE? Can’t find bloody . . .  
  
Dug deep in my bag, then pulled it out. Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around and saw a man.  
  
“You’ve dropped your doodah,” he said.  
  
Puzzled, I replied, “I’m sorry? My what?”  
  
He pointed downwards. “Your doodah. Y’know, the thing you put in your knickers. Your minge-mop. It’s on the floor.”  
  
Shocked by his words, I looked down – and then gasped.  
  
Oh shit!  
  
When I snatched out my Oyster card from my bag, I must have accidentally also pulled out a panty liner. Cheeks flaming, I hastily picked it up and mumbled a thank you.  
  
“No worries,” he chirped. “My girlfriend uses those. Recognised the pattern on the wrapping.”  
  
At least it was a brand of individually wrapped panty liners, but have never been so embarrassed in my life.

**  
  
6.55 pm. Our house.**

  
  
Back home from early shift at work and panty liner calamity. Despite preoccupied mind, love the sight of Mark Darcy feeding our son.  
  
The TV in our on-trend, custom-made, handleless kitchen, with its high gloss finish, granite worktops, Miele appliances and Fisher  & Paykel fridge freezer, was on a children’s channel. I recognised Rastamouse, Will’s newest obsession.  
  
Still in his suit trousers with his shirt a little undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows (phwoar!), Mark sat on a bar stool at the kitchen island with Will nearby in his high chair.  
  
One pair of expressive brown eyes was visibly overcome with love and happiness as the owner of the other set of brown eyes made unsuccessful attempts to snatch the bowl of food away.  
  
“Hello, darlings.” I walked over to the two males in my life and gave them both a kiss. “This is the worst part.” I heaved a sigh. “After months of being with him 24/7, I now get only a few minutes before his bedtime.”  
  
“Think about Thursday, Bridget. It’s not that far away now.”  
  
I sighed again. “Totally embarrassed myself in the tube station, Mark.”  
  
“Darling, tripping and falling while walking up the escalator is very common. Everyone does it. Don’t give it any more thought.”  
  
“No, not that. Haven’t done that since last night. Just now, I pulled out my Oyster card and somehow managed to also pull out a panty liner which fell on the floor and was spotted by a Guy Ritchie look-alike who called it a ‘minge-mop’.”  
  
Mark’s mouth twitched. He was trying not to laugh. He failed.  
  
“Oi, you bastard!”  
  
“I’m sorry, Bridget. I’m not laughing at you—”  
  
“You’re giving a bloody good impression of it.”  
  
“I am laughing, but not at you. I’m laughing at the scenario. You must admit, it is rather comical. I can’t believe he said ‘minge-mop’ to your face.”   
  
“Never heard them called that before! Wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.”  
  
“Poor darling,” Mark cooed. “I promise to shag your mortification away later.” He pointed at my carrier bag. “You stopped off at Tesco?”  
  
“I bought a bottle of Chardonnay.” He’ll know why soon I thought to myself as I opened the fridge door.   
  
When we moved in, I spent most of the first month trying to remember where to find essentials like the dishwasher, the cereal cupboard, the washing machine, the unit with the baby food and the dryer. Everything’s hidden behind walls and walls of wood and stainless steel.  
  
All very contemporary and in the words of the designer: “teeming with clean lines”. He was more fanatical about the overall look than we were.  
  
After days of opening the wrong doors and drawers, my patience snapped. Life’s too bloody short for avoidable crap so I labelled everything - all the appliances, doors, drawers and units.  
  
If that designer could see his precious “clean lines” kitchen now, reckon he’d have kittens; it’s an explosion of neon pink Post-it notes as far as the eye can see.  
  
Far from being upset about the defacement of a kitchen that cost tens of thousands of pounds, Mark, who’d had no trouble finding anything after the first couple of hours, thought it was hilarious.  
  
That night in bed he teased me for ages, asking if I remembered where his arse was located and where his erection was or if I needed a Post-it note. Smug bastard.  
  
The next day, to mess with my mind, he swapped a number of Post-its around. However, I threatened him with a sex ban and he promptly put them all back.  
  
What on earth will Mark say when I tell him about the interview? Cannot relax. State of emergency, looping thoughts going around in my head. Need to find the right moment to—  
  
Will’s contented babbles were suddenly broken up by a really loud burp. He seemed surprised by what he’d done; his eyes widened and he momentarily stopped banging on his high chair.  
  
Mark chuckled and gently rubbed our baby’s back.  
  
“Bridget, did you see that? More to the point, did you hear that? We just missed a Kodak moment. The one time I wasn’t filming him. Damn and blast!”  
  
“It’s official. He’s the most adorable baby on the planet.”  
  
“Of course he is. He’s our son,” Mark said proudly.  
  
Opened my mouth to tell him what I needed to tell him, but different words came out instead.  
  
“Want me to put him down tonight?” Mentally kicked myself for being a coward, but it didn’t feel like the right moment.  
  
“Division of labour,” Mark proposed, lifting Will into his arms. “Mrs Walker’s left for the day, but there’s still some of that fish pie she made us yesterday in the fridge.”  
  
“Don’t think I’m in the mood for fish pie.”  
  
“Or you can phone for a Chinese and then come and join us in the nursery? We’ll put him down together.”  
  
The words I needed to say were still going round and around in my head: ‘Mark, I have some exciting news. Mark, I have the funniest story to tell you. Mark, we’re interviewing Daniel Cleaver tomorrow . . .’  
  
“Fancy a chicken chow mein?” I said instead.  
  
Oh shit.  
  
  
   
**8.34 pm.**  
  
   
We ate after Will fell asleep, and then self went all Danny Ocean in Ocean’s Eleven and, with military precision, planned my Cleaver-bombshell-reveal to the finest detail.  
  
Figured it would be easier to tell Mark after I’d relaxed away the stresses and strains of his typical working day. Gorgeous George would be so proud of me.  
  
Dutch courage was needed so I glugged down a glass of Chardonnay (got light-headed too – self has become a lightweight!) before pouring Mark some whisky.  
  
I put on a Frasier DVD and, as it was a warm night, changed into a pyjama shorts and top set. Perfect for vegging out in front of the TV.  
  
Imperative for Mark not to be side-tracked when I tell him about my ex-boyfriend/his ex-best friend crashing into our lives again . . . Oops! Oh dear. Given all that’s happened to Daniel, ‘crashing’ is a bad choice of word . . .  
  
What self is trying to say is no distractions allowed, hence sensible nightwear which isn’t sensual or provocative. No silk, no satin and no sheer - just good old reliable cotton. Hurrah!  
  
Said pink striped pyjamas are the kind of thing I wore to sleepovers with mates at uni. Fond, fun memories of building a blanket fort. And will never forget the state I was in the day after wolfing down loads and loads of ice cream laced with cheap plonk . . .   
  
Looking back, university days were so straightforward. Everything started getting more complicated the moment I landed my job at Pemberley Press. It put me on the road to where I am now; once again caught between the two main loves of my life.  
  
Seated next to him on the sofa, was encouraged by how well things were going. Mark laughed heartily as Frasier and Niles got themselves into another fine mess.   
  
“Such a clever comedy, especially when the humour emanates from the erudite,” he said.  
  
I agreed, adding, “I love the earlier ones with Niles’ crush on Daphne. How could she be so blind? Every time I watch those episodes, I want to scream: ‘your true love is right under your nose and smelling your hair!’”  
  
Gave myself huge pat on the back. This had been the right strategy and it was the right moment. Hurrah! It was time to talk Daniel . . .  
  
“Mark, tomorrow we’re–”  
  
Stopped dead when I saw the look on his face. First memory of it was at my blue soup dinner party.  
  
“Christ, you’re so fucking sexy in those pyjamas,” he said and pulled me roughly to him. “Take them off. Now.”  
  
Oh shit.  
  
  
  
**9.44 pm.**  
  
   
That period of post-sex downtime when light caresses are exchanged in bed. We had a lovely shag downstairs in the living room so perfect time to tell him about Daniel. Really not sure how he’ll react when–  
  
“Bridget?”  
  
“Uh-huh?”  
  
“Whenever I eat Chinese food, I’m hungry again an hour or so later.”  
  
Amused, I responded, “You’re not the only one.”  
  
“Odd, isn’t it?” he said and nuzzled my neck.  
  
“Wonder why that is?” I mused. “Never happens with pizza.”  
  
“Or Mexican cuisine.”  
  
“Or Indian takeaway.”  
  
Mark kissed me deeply. “Darling Bridget,” he murmured, “as far as I’m concerned, you are the human equivalent of Chinese food and now . . . I’m hungry again.” He slid on top of me, using his legs to part mine before easing inside my body.  
  
Oh shit. Shit. Shhhh-mmmm. Mmmmm. Mmmmm.  
  
   
  
**11.13 pm.**  
  
   
Fucketty, fucketty fuck.  
  
Bugger.  
  
Completely bloody ridiculous.  
  
Fuck it. And fuck Danny Ocean too.  
  
“Mark?”  
  
“Hmmmmmm?”  
  
“You awake?”  
  
“Hmmmmmm.”  
  
“Really, are you awake?”  
  
“Hmmm.”  
  
“Tomorrow, we’re interviewing Daniel Cleaver.”  
  
“Hmmmm . . .”  
  
Suddenly he sat bolt upright as my words finally penetrated his shag-addled brain.  
  
“What?!?”  
  
“G’night, darling,” I yawned cavernously and fell asleep.  
  
   
  
**Wednesday 4 May**  
  
**6.18 am. Our house.**  
  
   
  
“You’re being completely ridiculous!” I huffed.  
  
As soon as I’d opened my eyes and looked into his face, I knew what was coming. We’d been at it for 15 minutes.  
  
“He wasn’t found after the first search, there was a memorial service for him, which you also attended I might add, and then he turns up alive. It’s a story. He’s a story. He’s a big story. It’s work.”  
  
“I’m being completely ridiculous and paranoid about the man who ruined my first marriage? He would not hesitate to wreck my third if he believed he could win you back.”  
  
“Thank you for that vote of confidence in me.”  
  
“Bridget, I have every confidence in you. Cleaver, on the other hand . . .”  
  
Exasperated, I cried, “If you trust me as much as you say you do, then trust me!”  
  
“This is not merely an issue of trust. There are other factors at play.”  
  
I sighed. “Mark, I’m your wife, I’m the mother of your son. It’s you I love. Only you.”  
  
“You were in his hotel room in Thailand during that absurd first split of ours, and after you ended our engagement, you went back to him again. I simply do not understand his Svengali-like hold on you.”  
  
“How many more times do I have to tell you that nothing happened? We weren’t officially together, Mark - and yet nothing happened between me and Daniel.”  
  
“How, pray tell, are you defining the word ‘nothing’? As in, ‘not anything’ and ‘not a single thing’? Or perhaps, ‘something of no importance or significance whatsoever’? With regard to you and Cleaver, the former, frankly, would be impossible to believe and the latter is a matter of personal opinion. Utterly subjective.”   
  
Gaaaaaaahhh! This is the downside of being married to a bloody barrister; marital arguments become legal arguments and I usually end up on trial.  
  
“‘Nothing happened’ and yet he kissed you and pawed you. I am correct in assuming that, at the very least, am I not?”  
  
“Says the man who married Camerlengo. Or is her name Candida?”  
  
“You know perfectly well her name is Camilla,” he admonished haughtily.  
  
“Well, I didn’t marry Daniel. Or anyone else, for that matter.”  
  
Honestly. When it comes to his bitter rivalry with Daniel, I feel like a mother of two infants, with Will the more mature of the two.  
  
I tried again to get through to him.  
  
“Mark, darling Mark, despite everything, I can’t help liking the self-centred bastard. He’s probably going to remain a part of my life but he will never be my life. Ever. Not the way you are. You will not open a door and catch us having sex. It’s not going to happen. I will never leave you for him or anyone else. Not even George Clooney.”  
  
He exhaled.  
  
Then he glanced at the baby monitor.  
  
“So. What time is this interview of yours?” he enquired, trying to inject as much nonchalance as possible into his tone.  
  
“It’s scheduled for 20 past five.”  
  
“OK. I’ll record it and watch it later.”  
  
Détente.  
  
We were back on firmer ground.  
  
Looked at my phone.  
  
“If you’re done being a bloody silly arse, we should have a make up kiss and cuddle before Will wakes. We’ve got around 15 minutes . . .”  
  
 


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday 4 May**

**4.45 pm. Hard News Studios. Green room.**

  
“Like your tits in that top,” Daniel said with a leer.  
  
Couldn’t help smiling. “Same old horny lech.”  
  
We had hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks with great affection, and now we were sitting on a little two-seater sofa having a quick catch-up over coffee before his live interview. Despite the nightmare he’d been through, he looked good.  
  
“I’m so very happy to see you alive and well, Daniel. Are you OK?”  
  
“Perfectly fine.”  
  
“Must have been horrible for you. Can’t imagine it. Don’t want to imagine it.”  
  
“Was on my way to getting pissed as a fart and then she went down on me. The plane, not – more’s the pity - a woman. Happened shortly after take-off.”  
  
“I know. Read about it in the paper. How awful, Daniel. Are you sure you’re OK? Are you getting any help?”  
  
“The worst part was over a couple of months ago, Bridge. Had to get back on a plane to come home. Told myself lightning doesn’t strike twice. And the crew kept the whisky flowing so that was a major plus. Trying to fly as much as possible now – fall off a horse an’ all that.”  
  
“Can’t wait to read your book. Hope writing it will be therapeutic for you.”  
  
“The best therapy is being balls-deep inside a woman, Bridge. That and a glass of whisky is just what the doctor ordered.”  
  
“I can give you a self-help book or two but they’re mostly the ones I bought near the end of my first engagement to Mark. Been meaning to get rid of them for ages. You might find something comforting in _How To Not Commit To Him When He Does Not Commit To You_. Or maybe you could scan _When The Other Woman Is His Job_ and see if–”  
  
“Thanks, but no thanks. Never understood your obsession with those things.”  
  
“Never understood your obsession with sport.”  
  
“Funny thing about a near-death experience and confronting one’s own mortality, from that day, one is reborn. Senses are more heightened: food smells better, women taste better, sex feels better. Talking of sex . . .” he smirked lewdly.  
  
“Keep talking. To someone else. Or yourself. I’m married now,” I said with a flash of the rings on my left hand. “And I’m the mother of a 14-month-old baby.”  
  
“Fuck me!”  
  
“Never again.”  
  
He seemed genuinely shocked.  
  
“What the hell happened to you? You’re sprogged up and married?”  
  
“Yes. And my husband is the father.” It all sounds so simple put like this. Wonder what he’d say if I had the time to go into the who’s-the-daddy love triangle thingy with Jack?   
  
“Who’s the lucky fellow?”  
  
I grinned. “Guess.” Daniel caught the expression on my face and the playfulness in my voice. The penny dropped.  
  
“Oh no. It's not possible,” he said. “But the last time I saw you, you’d come to your senses and left him. What went wrong?”  
  
“It’s a long story, but the short version is he got me up the duff.”  
  
“And you had to marry him or go into the local workhouse? Jones, do you have any idea what century we actually live in?”  
  
“I married him because I love him. Always have, always will. And it was the best thing to ever happen to us. Our baby boy is our world.”  
  
“If you’d only considered trusting me again,” he tsk-tsked. “We were so good together.”  
  
I almost spat out my coffee. “Excuse me? When were we ever good together when we weren’t shagging?”  
  
“Well, when we went to . . . Hang on . . . Give me a minute to think of . . .”  
  
“Daniel, we were over years and years ago after I caught you cheating on me with that naked American stick insect. And do I even have to mention Thailand?”  
  
He pretended to yawn. “Bridge, this preoccupation with trifling details is all rather boring. It’s not a good look on you – very ageing. Darcy’s dreary influence, no doubt.”  
  
Gave him a friendly nudge. “A long time ago, you told me you were trying to be a better man. You should keep trying, Daniel. A steady relationship may be just what you need.”  
  
“We can’t all be Mark Darcy; he loves steady relationships so much, he marries every girl he shags. Aren’t you wife number three?”  
  
Piqued, I said, “He married wife number two on the rebound from me.”  
  
“Tell me, does he still have that erectile dysfunction problem?”  
  
“You’d love it if that were true, wouldn’t you?  
  
He quirked an eyebrow. “You mean it isn’t?”  
  
“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. What am I going to do with you?” I said with a shake of my head.  
  
“Suck me off, wank me off, lick my balls – your choice,” he grinned.  
  
“You do realise I’m Mrs Darcy now?”  
  
“Never stopped me before. Question: when did Darcy, er, take you up the aisle?”  
  
Looked at him in exasperation; he good-humouredly waggled his eyebrows. Decided to ignore his double entendre.  
  
“Technically, we’re newlyweds. We were married two months ago. We’re ecstatically happy.”  
  
“What’s the kid called?”  
  
“William. William Jones Darcy.”  
  
“Didn’t know Darce had it in him,” he said. “Was beginning to think his little soldiers were firing blanks.”  
  
“Mark’s very virile, Daniel. Very.”  
  
“Too much information. Well, you know what a huge fan l am of any woman married to Mark Darcy.”  
  
“That’s still not funny, you both broke his heart. He’s never got over it.”  
  
“Rubbish. He forgot all about her the moment he became obsessed with you.” Daniel looked me up and down. “What is this special power you hold over us, Jones?”  
  
Before I could answer, there was a knock on the door. It was Simone the makeup lady.  
  
“Sorry for interrupting but it’s time to make Mr Cleaver sparkle.”  
  
I nodded. “Daniel, you’ll be interviewed by Miranda Levine. She’ll make you feel at home. I’ll catch up with you later. Good luck!”  
  
“Thank you. And that bloody skirt is way too long, Jones.”

 

**5.20 pm. Hard News Studios.**

 

Malice’s malevolent presence hung over the gallery like the stench of an eggy fart. I knew she was waiting for me to screw up and I was determined not to give her that satisfaction.  
  
“Checking talkback, Miranda,” I said as the VT of Daniel’s amazing story of air crash survival neared the end of its broadcast.  
  
“Does he have a massive cock?” she persisted.  
  
“He is a massive cock,” I countered. “His PR rep’s still insisting we’re not getting more than five minutes. We need a bloody good top line.”  
  
“Twenty seconds to air,” said James the floor manager. “Coming out of Cleaver VT in 10, nine, eight . . . four, three, two . . .”  
  
“Latest news headlines to follow, but now I’m joined live in the studio by Daniel Cleaver, the man whose astonishing story includes surviving a plane crash and rescue after a year in the outback. Daniel, thank you for coming in to talk to us. What was the worst part about your ordeal?”  
  
He flashed a million-dollar smile at Miranda. “The worst part, the crash, was over very quickly. During the year that followed, naturally I missed my family but I also missed things I never thought I’d yearn for – like really soft toilet tissue.”  
  
“Soft sodding toilet tissue, Bridget?” Malice scoffed. “If he carries on talking shit, no pun intended, I’m cutting to that VT of the burglar who got his bum stuck in the window.”  
  
“Miranda, he’s a serial shagger. Ask him if he shagged anyone Down Under,” I instructed, aware the clock was ticking in more ways than one.  
  
“You have a reputation as a womaniser. Were you celibate during that year in Australia?”  
  
Complete silence from Malice – a good sign.  
  
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “A question I haven’t been asked before.”  
  
“What’s the answer?”  
  
“Well, time passed excruciatingly slowly. Every day felt like a year.”  
  
“He’s avoiding the question, Miranda!” I cried. “Keep on it.”  
  
“Were you lonely? Or did you have sexual relations with the local females?”  
  
“You could wait for the finer details in my book. Or I could tell you over dinner,” Daniel smarmed, lowering his voice.  
  
“Don’t fall for it! He’s still ducking the question.”  
  
Miranda took it up a gear.  
  
“Formerly, you presented travelogue The Smooth Guide – I can now see why. But what’s the answer to my question? Did you go down well in the bush? Did the women Down Under go down under?”  
  
“Fucking brilliant!” Richard bellowed. “Zoom in on three.”  
  
Fixing a smile on his face, Daniel stated, “You’ll have to read my forthcoming book, which will be exclusively serialised in the—”  
  
“Miranda, apologise and interrupt. Then follow my lead,” I said.

 

“There are rumours                      “Sorry to interrupt, but there are rumours

of a Hollywood movie                  of a Hollywood movie about your ordeal and

starring Hugh Laurie.”                  rescue with Hugh Laurie in the lead role.”

 

“Hugh bloody Laurie?” Daniel exclaimed in disgust. “He’s older than I am. And he’s balding! It’d be pretty bloody difficult to believe the foxy Aboriginal women I was with would spend a year fighting over him.”  
  
I jumped in. “Is he saying the women he shagged fought over him?”  
  
“So you’re saying the local women you were involved with fought over you while you waited to be rescued?”  
  
“I’m . . . Well, that is . . . You’ve got . . . I’m saying all will be revealed in my book.”  
  
“Got the top line. Hugh Laurie and jealous Aboriginal women.”  
  
“And there you have it. Daniel Cleaver tells Hard News about his steamy liaisons with Aboriginal women during his year in the bush and that Hugh Laurie isn’t attractive enough to play him in a Hollywood movie. Daniel, thank you for coming into Hard News.”  
  
“But-but-but,” he stammered.  
  
“Thank you again, Daniel,” Miranda said dismissively. “We’ll be back with a round-up of the headlines.”  
  
“Wh-hoo!” shouted Richard. “Cue the fucking weather, people!”  
  
In the gallery, a couple of muscles on Malice’s face made an involuntary movement. On anyone else, it would be called a smile. She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to. I grinned in triumph. 

 

**9.32 pm. Our house.**

**  
** “You’re not going to rewind it again. This is the fifth time now!”  
  
“Last time. I promise.”  
  
We were sitting on the sofa in the living room, finally able to unwind after Will had fallen asleep and after we’d had a simple spag bol dinner.   
  
Earlier, just before seven, Mark had given me a hero’s welcome; I felt like an Allied soldier being cheered on by liberated civilians during World War II.     
  
“Darling, I’m so very proud of you! Marvellous stuff under so much pressure. William, give your brilliant, top-notch producer Mummy a big hug and kiss,” he enthused as he handed our son over to me.  
  
In the hour that had followed the interview, my phone went text-crazy.  
  
  
SHAZZER                                                       Today 17: 38

Remind me never to cross you! Fab fucking journalism – proud of you! x  
  
JUDE                                                              Today 17:56

Fucking wow, Miss Producer! Speak soon! xx  
  
TOM                                                               Today 18:12

I still would cos Daniel’s still got it! But you got it even more, bitch! x     
  
  
For some strange reason, it all reminded me of their reaction to my Kaffir Aghani and Eleanor Heaney exclusive. Amazing how that—  
  
“Here it is. My favourite part is coming up, Bridget . . . Hugh Laurie not handsome enough to portray Cleaver. The look on his face is absolutely priceless!” Mark chuckled. “Well done, darling. A wonderfully illuminating interview.”  
  
“It’s five bloody minutes long!”  
  
“It’s not the quantity, but the quality that matters.”  
  
I crossed my arms. “You’re just happy the scoop came via Daniel messing up.”  
  
“It is rather poetic when one thinks about it.”  
  
“All I did was my job. It wasn’t personal. I still feel sorry for him; he’s been through a terrible experience.”  
  
“Yes, he has,” Mark conceded. “However, with a book in the offing and rumours of a Hollywood movie, he will be an even bigger hit with women. And Cleaver will love that.”  
  
“Daniel needs to stop shagging around and find a nice woman to settle down with.” I grimaced. “Oh shit! I’m turning into my mother.”  
  
“I can live with that as long as we never have a lavender reaffirmation of vows ceremony.” He leaned in and gave me a kiss. “Coffee, darling?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
Mark got off the sofa and popped over to the kitchen while I checked my mobile and reflected on my Hard News stint. Still can’t believe . . . Oooh, more text messages!  
  
  
MIRANDA                                                     Today 19:32

Mr Dildo is history. Found a new playmate. Daniel Cleaver asked for my number. He’s here now.  
  
  
MIRANDA                                                     Today 20:38

Just shagged DC! He wants anal – you didn’t tell me he likes arse!  
  
  
MIRANDA                                                     Today 21:14

Bringing DC for Friday dinner. See you then – if I can still walk!  
  
  
Oh fuck. Fucketty, fucketty fuck.  
  
Heard Mark’s approaching footsteps and quickly switched off my phone.  
  
“Every time I watch Rastamouse with William, I still laugh whenever someone says, ‘President Wensley Dale’.” He handed me my coffee and sat back down. “Kudos to whoever came up with that name.”  
  
I plastered a smile across my face. “Guess who’s coming to dinner on Friday?”

 

**10.28 pm.**

 

“Why don’t we just ask him to move in and have done with it?” Mark huffed grumpily as he thumped his pillow into shape.  
  
“Darling, I say this with the greatest amount of love and affection: you’re being a silly arse again.”  
  
Despite self’s constant declarations of utter adoration, the mere mention of Daniel and it’s farewell to brilliant barrister judgment and common sense and hello to jealousy and insecurity.   
  
Come to think of it, Mark’s green-eyed monster also made its presence felt when Jack was wooing me; possessiveness oozed from every pore of his body.  
  
Was nice to be at the centre of so much attention, but was also bloody awful. Being flattered by Jack’s infatuation felt like betraying Mark even though we weren’t officially an item - and hadn’t been for years.  
  
This is where jealousy has no logic – he’s jealous of Daniel, a man I haven’t shagged in well over a decade, but conveniently ignores his own marriage to another woman during our five years apart. Not sure what I expected when I left him, but I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect someone else to be what I had not been. Not that I’m jealous of Camiknickers; I’m sure she’s a nice woman . . .    
  
“It’s only dinner. A couple of hours in each other’s company, some food, some alcohol, some chat,” I said in as reasonable a tone as I could manage while I continued removing my makeup.  
  
“I am paying far too high a price for laughing at his interview. Think I’d rather have the plague of frogs and locusts instead,” he muttered ruefully.  
  
“Look at it as an opportunity to finally put the past behind you,” I reasoned. “You did the decent thing when you thought he was dead – you can do it again now you know he’s alive. I think we’re going to have a fun evening.”  
  
“Have you forgotten what happened the last time he crashed one of our dinner parties? I ended up flattening him in the street.”  
  
“Mark, that was my blue soup birthday dinner,” I corrected.  
  
“It was our blue soup dinner party,” he insisted. “We shared the cooking.”  
  
“If the shoe was on the other foot, you’d laugh that out of court.”  
  
“Just out of interest, what would have happened had Cleaver not turned up that night?”  
  
I stopped rubbing cream on my face and gave it some thought. “You were so sweet to me, so helpful and the way you looked at me . . .  I would’ve given you a good night snog.”  
  
“And I would have done everything in my power to turn that snog into sex.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Couldn’t help frowning. “But wouldn’t you have thought me some kind of slag if I’d shagged you that night?”  
  
“Christ, not at all,” he stated emphatically.  
  
Puzzled, I admitted that I didn’t get it. “Kissing on the first date is a no-no, according to the rules. But you would’ve been happy if we’d shagged? That wasn’t even a date, Mark!”  
  
He sat up. “How to explain this? Bridget, imagine you’re deprived of your favourite meal, but at the same time, it is always right there in front of you, everywhere you go. It’s so close, the aroma fills your nostrils and floods your senses, yet all you can do is yearn for it. All you can do is imagine how wonderful it would be to have a taste.”  
  
“OK,” I said.  
  
“It’s the first thought when you wake up, it’s the last thought when you go to sleep and it’s the only thought when you dream. It becomes an all-consuming passion. Nothing else in the world matters because you want to have that taste, you need to have that taste, you need to satisfy the hunger devouring your body and peace of mind.”  
  
“Oh,” I managed to squeeze out as my breathing quickened. His words were having an effect on me, but he wasn’t finished.   
  
“So why would I think you a ‘slag’, to use your expression, when I was longing for you? All those months of tortuous dreams; dreams of making love to you, dreams of sexy black dresses and Playboy Bunny outfits and in every dream, you liked me too – something I couldn’t be sure of until the birthday dinner when I felt you warming to me.”  
  
“I was,” I said huskily. “I was falling for you, Mark. I’m still falling for you. Every day I think I couldn’t possibly love you more than I already do, and every day I fall more and more in love with you.”  
  
“Bridget, had we kissed that night, you’d better damn well believe I would have seized the opportunity to make my dreams our reality.”  
  
I stood up, walked over to the bed, pulled back the covers and got in.  
  
Turning to face him, I said, “Mark, I’m so bloody turned-on right now, if you touch me, I’ll explode.”  
  
“I’ll take my chances,” he murmured, moving his hand down my body and under my chemise before tugging at my knickers. I lifted my body to aid their removal, telling myself to breathe steadily as Mark threw them on the floor and shifted position. He ducked his head between my thighs; a second later I felt his tongue lapping, licking, sliding . . . Mmmmmmmm.

 

**Friday 6 May**

**4.07 pm. Our house.**

   
An afternoon date with Judge Judy while Will has a little nap. Think the rather novel heatwave is a bit too much for him despite all the Dyson fans littered around the house.   
  
After talking it over yesterday, wonderful Mrs Walker took both the hot weather and my cooking skills into account and came up with a very simple menu for tonight’s dinner: gazpacho as the starter (already chilling in the fridge), followed by pan-fried salmon with watercress salad and polenta croutons (which she’s currently making) and, for dessert, a white chocolate crème brûlée (also chilling in the fridge).  
  
Yummy!  
  
When it’s time for the main course, I have to pan-fry the salmon. And when we’re nearly ready for dessert, I have to blowtorch the crème brûlées so that the tops can caramelise and harden. Easy-peasy!  
  
After Pulitzer Prize-worthy interview, am now serving up a dinner party (heh) that would make Nigella Lawson proud.  
  
Oh joy! Am career goddess and domestic goddess. No end to self’s talents and this is only . . . Oooh! Mobile’s ringing. Call from wig and gown-wearing totty husband.  
  
“Hello.”   
  
“Hello, darling. How are my two worlds?”  
  
As always, his words warmed my heart and I smiled. “Your son is sleeping and your wife is in full-on dinner party mode.”  
  
“Ah yes, that little soirée of yours. Regale my taste buds; what are we having?”  
  
“Gazpacho, pan-fried salmon and white chocolate crème brûlée,” I told him proudly.  
  
“Sounds delicious. I love crème brûlée.”  
  
“I know. That’s why it’s on the menu.”  
  
“Darling, is Mrs Walker blowtorching the desserts?”  
  
“No, I am. She’s leaving at six.”  
  
There was a slight pause and then he said: “Why don’t we blowtorch them together?”  
  
“Mark, it’s me and a blowtorch. What could possibly go wrong?”  
  
There was no answer.  
  
“Mark? Mark? Are you still there?”  
  
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” he responded.  
  
“Very bloody funny. You still won’t let me forget about that foil carton I accidentally microwaved years ago,” I said. “OK – we’ll do it together.”  
  
“Something tells me it’s a double whisky night tonight.”  
  
“It probably won’t be anywhere near as bad as you think.”  
  
“That’s exactly what Mother said when she set me up with Fiona Blythe.”  
  
I frowned. “Who is Fiona Blythe?”  
  
“She was an utter disaster that happened shortly after my first divorce.”  
  
“What went wrong?”  
  
“Everything,” he replied. “She spent the first half of dinner talking about her ex-husband, and the second half weeping over said ex-husband. I’m sure everyone in that restaurant thought I was some kind of abusive bastard.”  
  
“Oh dear.”  
  
“That was bad enough, but Mother refused to give up. She also pushed me in the direction of a verbally incontinent spinster at a turkey curry buffet.”  
  
“She didn’t!” I cried in mock shock.  
  
“She did. Never met anyone like that woman in my entire life; she smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish and dressed like her mother. I think her name was Bridget Jones.”  
  
“Whatever happened to her?” I asked facetiously.  
  
“I hear she married a barrister.”  
  
“How very upwardly mobile of her.”  
  
“They have a beautiful son now,” he added.  
  
“Are they happy?”  
  
“Blissfully. He loves her and their son with every fibre of his being.”  
  
“Lucky her,” I smiled.  
  
“No. Lucky him.”

 

**6.29 pm.**

   
Will woke just before five and struggled to keep his eyes open after having a little risotto. An hour later, Mark arrived home from work so he took care of our son while I thanked Mrs Walker, our housekeeper, sometime nanny and cook extraordinaire, for being so excellent.  
  
“The heat has drained William’s energy. Our beloved boy is out for the count. What time are they coming?” Mark enquired as he walked into our bedroom.  
  
“I told Miranda to be here at half seven,” I said as I checked out my reflection in the mirror.  
  
“Half past seven? Right. I’m going to quickly freshen up.”  
  
To Mark’s intense disappointment, I’ve dropped two cup sizes since I stopped breastfeeding. However, to my intense relief, no sagging and the stretch marks have virtually gone.  
  
Also on the plus side, this Grecian-inspired halterneck dress looks good now. The last time I tried it on, Will was three-months-old and we were still living in Borough. After slipping it over my head, was vexed to discover that the straps I'd tied around my neck couldn’t support and contain my huge boobs; they’d spilled out everywhere. I had side boob, boob bulge, boob overhang – the works.  
  
Mark took one look and the next minute we were in bed having fast and furious sex while Will slept.  
  
Maybe we’ll give him a little brother or sister one day. But despite Mum’s sledgehammer subtlety, we’re not putting pressure on ourselves – if it happens, it happens.   
  
Ten minutes later, Mark emerged from the shower in our en suite clad only in a towel. I sat on the bed and tied up my navy blue wedge espadrilles, chosen because they match the colour of my dress.  
  
“Feel cooler?” I asked.  
  
Mark sighed. “Why is this country so punishing in a heatwave?”  
  
He opened a wardrobe door and selected beige chinos and a white shirt before padding over to the bed. I approved the choice of attire in my head; he always looks good in chinos. He also looks very good in jeans - yummy. He just looks good, full stop. Have a very hot husband who loves me just the way I am. Oh dear. Am setting off the smugometer again . . .  
  
“I’ve turned on the fans and opened the bifolding doors. We can have dinner in the garden and cool down,” I said.  
  
“Good idea.”  
  
For once in my life, I was ready before Mark. “Ta-daaah!” I sing-songed. “How do I look?”  
  
He turned around and stared at me. “I’m disappointed.”  
  
“Disappointed?” I was miffed. I thought I looked bloody good. I walked back to the mirror for another inspection.  
  
“I’m disappointed l can’t go to bed with you this instant,” he admitted. “You look beautiful. As always.”  
  
“Oh,” I smiled coyly.  
  
“Are you sure you can’t phone Miranda and cancel this infernal thing?”  
  
I sauntered over to Mark and pecked his cheek. He scooped an arm around my waist and pulled me to him.     
  
“If you promise to be on your best behaviour tonight, I will do anything you want when we shag later.”  
  
His eyes widened. “Anything?”  
  
“Anything,” I said, reaching around to grope his bum.  
  
He groaned. “How the fuck am I supposed to get through this dinner party now?”  
  
“That’s your problem,” I said before pulling off his towel and running out of the room.  
  
“Bridget!” he cried.

 

 **7.33 pm.  
  
  
  
** Doorbell! Time to get the show on the road.  
  
I stood and smoothed down my dress. “Won’t be a moment, Mark.”  
  
“Take your time. Please,” he said and took a swig of his whisky. “Fly to Jamaica on the way to the front door, if you feel the inclination.”  
  
“Remember my promise about tonight; think naughty nurse, sexy secretary, lewd librarian . . .”  
  
“Dickhead Daniel? Sorry, couldn’t resist all that alliteration.”  
  
Gave him a warning look and made my way to the door.  
  
“Bridge!”  
  
“Jones!”  
  
“Hello, you two. Come in, come in.” I stood aside so they could enter. “I’m so glad you could make it.” We were all smiles and hugs. I was genuinely pleased to see them.  
  
“I know you and Mark are responsible parents, but we’re not so we bought you some alcohol,” Miranda said impishly.  
  
“Play your cards right and we may even let you drink some of it,” Daniel added. He’d paired dark blue jeans with a blue shirt which really set off his eyes. He looked very spiffy.  
  
Snapping out of my reverie, I took the proffered bottles. “Excellent! Thanks. Follow me. We’re having drinks in the garden. You look gorgeous. Where’s that LBD from?”  
  
“LBD?” Daniel queried, looking lost.  
  
“Little black dress,” we said simultaneously.  
  
“Selfridges. Nice house, Bridge. Wow! Love what you’ve done with the place,” Miranda said, glancing from left to right.

“I don’t smell burning so this evening’s already a hit,” Daniel joked. “What’s for dinner, Jones? Purple soup? M, you’re not going to believe this but years ago, Bridge actually made blue soup for her dinner guests. Not intentionally, of course.”  
  
“Oh, I believe it,” she responded.  
  
We walked through the living room’s bifolding doors and out into the garden where Mark was waiting.  
  
Hurrah at uncharacteristic hot weather and opportunity to eat al fresco – could not feel more European if I was smoking Gauloises, wearing clogs and listening to Edith Piaf.  
  
“Darling, our guests have arrived,” I said rather pointlessly. He could see who was in our house. I put the bottles of Champagne in the outdoor cooler then popped over to the table where I’d already placed a jug of Pimms, olives and breadsticks and the baby monitor.  
  
“Ooh! Really liking your garden,” Miranda enthused.  
  
I chose our outdoor dining set because I love the way the four curved sofas look around the circular table. Hope that doesn’t sound too Smug Married, but after the lack of outdoor space in my Borough flat, am really enjoying having a garden. And Will absolutely loves it.  
  
Mark extended a hand. “Miranda, lovely to see you again. You look splendid.”  
  
“Hello, Mark. You look well too. Being a newlywed suits you.”  
  
“Thank you,” he replied and smiled in my direction.  
  
“It’s your third time as a newlywed, right?”  
  
“Pimms, Miranda?” I immediately said and mouthed the word ‘bitch’ at her. She winked in response.  
  
“Fuck, yes. Love Pimms. Fill that glass, Bridge.”  
  
Thankfully, Miranda was oblivious to all the tension but I could see the two men eyeing each other warily, like boxers trying to psych each other out.  
  
“Cleaver.”  
  
“Darcy.”  
  
They shared a firm handshake.  
  
“Drink?” Mark offered.  
  
“Whisky?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
“Ice?”  
  
“Yes, thank you.”  
  
“I’ll just help myself to Pimms, shall I?” I trilled enthusiastically to cover the slight awkwardness. “Daniel, you sit here next to me and Miranda. Help yourself to nibbles or I’ll end up eating all the olives.”  
  
“Nice weather we’re having,” said Mark as he handed Daniel his drink.


	4. Chapter 4

**8.16 pm.**

  
All four of us were seated at the table in the garden where the gazpacho had gone down a treat and the alcohol was loosening tongues.  
  
Although the conversation was flowing, I noticed the following: Miranda and I were chatting to each other and the two men; Mark was talking to me and Miranda and Daniel was doing the same.  
  
But the two main loves of my life were not conversing with each other. I decided enough was enough.  
  
“Mark, Miranda’s going to help me pan-fry the salmon. You and Daniel have a lot of catching up to do.”  
  
“But I thought I was—” he started to say, but I refused to listen. Before Miranda could object, I grabbed her elbow, pulled her off the sofa and dragged her out of the garden.  
  
“What are you doing?” she cried as we stepped into the kitchen. “And what are all these Post-it notes? There’s hundreds of them!”  
  
I ignored the Post-its observation. “It’s what we’re doing – we’re spying on Mark and Daniel.”  
  
Her mouth gaped open wide enough to swallow a football. “We’re doing what?”  
  
“State-of-the-art home security system,” I said. “We’re going to pan-fry the salmon and listen to their conversation.”  
  
Miranda’s eyes sparkled. “This is the best fucking dinner party I’ve ever been to!” she exclaimed. 

 

**8.19 pm.**

 

DANIEL: . . . and that makes for exciting possibilities.   
  
MARK: I see. So.  
  
DANIEL: So.  
  
MARK: How are you? I mean, following that traumatic experience.  
  
DANIEL: I’m well, all things considered. Enjoying my life even more now.  
  
MARK: I shouldn’t wonder. Miranda must be a tonic, she’s agreeably self-assured.  
  
DANIEL: Isn’t she? Bloody good shag too.  
  
MARK: I’m sure she’s more than that. In fact I know so because I saw your interview.  
  
DANIEL: Oh, of course she’s a very competent broadcaster. And she’s also a bloody good shag.  
  
MARK: So.  
  
DANIEL: Yes.  
  
MARK: How’s your mother?  
  
DANIEL: She’s well. Good health and all that. Your parents?  
  
MARK: They’re well.  
  
DANIEL: Good.  
  
MARK: Indeed.  
  
DANIEL: Yes.  
  
MARK: I, er, I thought of your mother when the news you were alive broke. Must have been a huge shock. A happy one, but huge nonetheless.  
  
DANIEL: Oh, she’s ecstatic. Could probably tell her I'm a sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania and not get cut out of her will.  
  
MARK: She was very brave at your memorial service.  
  
DANIEL: How did you know Mummy was . . .? You went to my memorial?  
  
MARK: Yes, Vivian.  
  
DANIEL: Urgh. Had I known Mummy would possibly out-live me, I would’ve instructed her not to reveal my middle name.   
  
MARK: Nobody laughed. And they put on a jolly good show for you. Barely an empty pew.  
  
DANIEL: Bloody hell, Darcy. Didn’t know you cared. I’m feeling all emotional – shall we shag now or later?  
  
MARK: A foreign concept to you, I know, but paying my respects was the decent thing to do. After all, we were friends once upon a time.   
  
DANIEL: Too bad you let a woman come between us. Bad form, y’know. As the Yanks say, ‘bros before hoes’.  
  
MARK: Well I’m really bloody sorry if my righteous anger over your cock being inside my first wife upset you.  
  
DANIEL: Self-righteous anger, more like.  
  
MARK: Oh, piss off.  
  
DANIEL: Calm down, dear. Watch the blood pressure or your wig will explode. In any case, you should really be thanking me: if I hadn’t shagged her, you wouldn’t be the father of Bridget Jones’ son. Who knows? Maybe I’d be married to Bridge instead. Everything happens for a reason.  
  
MARK: You’re seriously putting a positive spin on destroying my first marriage and betraying our friendship? Unbelievable.  
  
DANIEL: It takes two to fandango, y’know. Anyway, all water under the bridge now. Or perhaps I should say, all water under the Bridget.  
  
MARK: Entirely beside the point.  
  
DANIEL: Bet you can’t even remember her name.  
  
MARK: Don’t be so bloody stupid! Of course I remember her name.  
  
DANIEL: Darcy, I’m a lot of things: handsome, rich, smooth, personable, dapper, suave—  
  
MARK: Shitty, wanky, shallow, selfish, smarmy, twatty—  
  
DANIEL: —but the one thing I am not is stupid. This isn’t about Mika. See? I remember her name too; this is about Bridget.  
  
MARK: Leave my wife out of this.  
  
DANIEL: You first.  
  
MARK: Fuck off.  
  
DANIEL: Darce, you can’t still be bitter after all these years? Then again, maybe you can. Seems your good opinion, once lost is—  
  
MARK: You can deliver a lecture on what I have permission to feel when you walk in on me shagging your wife.  
  
DANIEL: That again? OK, let’s just get it all out in the open. Yes, I shagged Mika. Yes, I fucked her left, right and centre. Pussy, arse, mouth – I shoved my cock in every available orifice. Apart from her ears, of course. And her nostrils. And the—  
  
MARK: Thank you for the fucking recap. And no pun intended.  
  
DANIEL: But I was curious. I’d never had a Japanese girl before . . . Tiny bum and tits.  
  
MARK: I hope she was worth it.  
  
DANIEL: She was more than willing so what in arse were you not doing in bed?  
  
MARK: Why don’t you ask Bridget? She says I’m the best she’s ever had.  
  
DANIEL: Touché.  
  
MARK: You got off lightly for Mika.  
  
DANIEL: Paid for it on Bridge’s birthday when you beat me to a bloody pulp, remember? You hadn’t even got anywhere near her knickers at that point, but I was still beaten to shit.  
  
MARK: Diddums, Cleaver.    
  
DANIEL: I would have congratulated you for that right hook had I not been unconscious at the time.  
  
MARK: And yet, I remain unrepentant.  
  
DANIEL: Always in control except when it comes to her - the blood in my mouth was my first clue.  
  
MARK: You deserved it.  
  
DANIEL: If that had been wholly about Mika, I suppose I’d concede I got my comeuppance. But you and I know it wasn’t. That was mostly your Bridget Jones obsession. You were jealous as fuck.  
  
MARK: I was—  
  
DANIEL: Jealous. As. Fuck.  
  
MARK: I don’t know what you—  
  
DANIEL: Admit it. You turned green and saw red because I wanted her back.  
  
MARK: For your own selfish reasons, no doubt.   
  
DANIEL: If that horse of yours gets any higher, you’ll bump into the ozone layer.  
  
MARK: Truth is you never really loved her, Cleaver. You just loved having sex with her.   
  
DANIEL: It really is superb to think of upright and uptight Mark Darcy, respected and renowned human rights barrister, brawling over a woman in the street like a common criminal.  
  
MARK: Not my proudest moment, I’ll grant you.  
  
DANIEL: Moments. Plural. I remember the water fountain even if you choose not to.  
  
MARK: On the contrary, I perfectly recall events in the fountain. Didn’t you say something about shagging a ladyboy?  
  
DANIEL: Bloody Thailand. About the broken engagement, you need to know one little fact about me and Bridge.  
  
MARK: I don’t want to know. Not from you.  
  
DANIEL: Nothing sexual happened. Or at least, nothing very sexual happened. I did try, of course. Not because of the bad blood between us, but because it’s what I do: food equals eat, book equals read and women equals shag.  
  
MARK: ‘Women equals shag?’ Christ. It’s as if the suffragette movement never happened.  
  
DANIEL: If my little brush with death has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes, one has to be honest with oneself; I love women and I love sex and I won’t apologise for either.  
  
MARK: If I’m honest, women seem to love you too. Bridget, for example, remains fond of you.   
  
DANIEL: And I remain completely wild about the best shag I’ve ever had.  
  
MARK: Have you forgotten you’re seeing Miranda?  
  
DANIEL: No, I haven’t forgotten. I’m just being honest. There’s not much in it, but Bridge takes it by a nose.  
  
MARK: I trust my wife, but I do not trust you so consider this fair warning: if you so much as touch a hair on her head, I will—   
  
DANIEL: Oh, drop the caveman act. Look, the last time around, Bridge let me flirt with her and she let me kiss her, but that’s all she did. I thought she was playing hard to get so I got her squiffy and touched her up before—  
  
MARK: You fucking, fucked-up reprobate. You vile—  
  
DANIEL: Will you bloody listen to me? I got her squiffy and touched her up, but she called out your name! It was like reverse-Viagra; my cock instantly fell to Australia, which is pretty ironic given what happened to me soon after.  
  
MARK: Wait-what?  
  
DANIEL: Never felt so humiliated in all my life. Well, apart from you knocking me the fuck out.  
  
MARK: Am I hearing this correctly? Bridget called out my name while you were—  
  
DANIEL: Say no more, please. Even the memory is utterly mortifying. She was squiffy as fuck, but your precious Bridget remained exactly that – your precious Bridget.  
  
MARK: Crikey.  
  
DANIEL: It was bad enough when she went all frigid on me in Thailand. But calling out your name traumatised poor Little Dan-Dan. Bloody thing refused to get hard. After that, I never tried again. There’s only so much rejection even I can take.   
  
MARK: Darling Bridget.  
  
DANIEL: She was so broken up over breaking up with you, I never stood a chance. After that night, we just flirted a little, went out to dinner, that kind of thing. I felt like her new gay best friend. Was worried I’d start fancying George Clooney. Actually, even I’ll admit it’s OK to fancy him - was worried I’d start fancying Simon Cowell. She didn’t tell you?  
  
MARK: I didn’t ask. It was none of my business.  
  
DANIEL: Well, now you know.  
  
MARK: I saw her get into your car. I had visions of pissing all over it. And then in it.  
  
DANIEL: Steady on, Darcy! It’s one thing to fuck a man’s wife, but to piss all over a chap’s car? That would be utterly barbaric.      
  
MARK: She left me and went back to you and it felt like Cambridge all over again when every girl I ever fancied, fancied you instead.  
  
DANIEL: I was rather a totty-magnet, wasn’t I? The Fonzie of our set of Cantabrigians, albeit by way of London. Happy days indeed.  
  
MARK: Your sexual exploits back then put Mick Jagger in the shade. You were fun to be around. For a very long time, you had my admiration. And then you ruined it.  
  
DANIEL: And for a very long time, I was glad you were a ruddy clumsy oaf. Still can’t believe you spilt a pint over me celebrating Lineker’s goal.  
  
MARK: I can’t believe it either. But I did pay your laundry bill. And besides, it was a bloody good goal.  
  
DANIEL: True. I suppose it was worth stinking of The King’s Arms’ crap lager for that one. And it was a funny way to meet and make a new mate. You broke the world record for apologies that night.  
  
MARK: I’d never felt so aghast and so excruciatingly embarrassed in all my life. What a bloody stupid arse.   
  
DANIEL: But what good memories watching cricket, rugby and footy with you. Remember the FA Cup Finals? When Arsenal and Man Utd. beat Newcastle? You threw the biggest—    
  
MARK: Don’t remind me. Did I ever tell you how much Father loved that how we met story of ours? I knew it would take star billing during your best man’s speech. Ironically, the laughter from the guests lasted longer than the marriage.  
  
DANIEL: So who was the best man at your most recent wedding?  
  
MARK: An American billionaire named Jack Quant.  
  
DANIEL: A billionaire? Interesting. How did you two meet?  
  
MARK: Bridget introduced us. He’s a nice chap.  
  
DANIEL: How does Bridge know him?  
  
MARK: She fell in the mud at a music festival and he helped her up.  
  
DANIEL: That sounds like Jones. And even though she’s the best shag I’ve ever had, you’re on another level of obsession.  
  
MARK: It’s called love. You should try it with someone other than yourself.  
  
DANIEL: Absolutely besotted. Never seen anything like it. She’s well and truly got you by the short and curlies.  
  
MARK: Interesting turn of phrase.  
  
DANIEL: It’s all so bloody bizarre when one thinks about it; she’s so full of life and you’re so . . . well, you. Can’t imagine what she sees in you. What is it with you two?  
  
MARK: You wouldn’t understand, Cleaver.  
  
DANIEL: Try me.  
  
MARK: Why?  
  
DANIEL: Because I genuinely want to understand.  
  
MARK: The best way I can explain is this: you did not, perhaps you could not, reciprocate, but you still loved how Bridget made you feel in that brief period when you were her world, didn’t you?  
  
DANIEL: Yes, I suppose I did at times. Mainly in bed, if I’m honest. She was so uninhibited, the way she moaned and held my—  
  
MARK: Cleaver! I have no wish to hear about your sex life with my wife. Put simply, she’s my world and I’m hers. When you reach puberty, you’ll understand.  
  
DANIEL: I disappear and come back to find Jones not only a Darcy, but also a mother. I feel like I’m in some kind of ghastly alternative universe where Stephen Fry is straight, Hugh Laurie is gay and Madonna is a virgin.   
  
MARK: She’s a wonderful mother. We’re very happy. I’ve never been happier.  
  
DANIEL: Still can’t cook to save her life. I bet Miranda’s pan-frying that salmon.  
  
MARK: I married Bridget, not Nigella Lawson. My wife is perfect just as she is.  
  
DANIEL: In bed, does she still make that cute little sound when she’s just about to co—  
  
MARK: Watch it, Cleaver.  
  
DANIEL: Yes, I suppose that would be out of order.  
  
MARK: Ah, here comes Bridget and Miranda . . .

 

**8.37 pm.**

 

Miranda gasped in shock. “You didn’t tell me Daniel bonked Mark’s first wife! Talk about juicy. But I wouldn’t have invited him if I’d known. Totes fucking awkward.”  
  
I carried on plating up the watercress salad and polenta croutons. “Watch the salmon, Miranda! I don’t want to serve pan-fried carbon as the main course. As for Daniel and Mark, it’s all rather . . . involved,” I sighed.  
  
“It’s all rather incestuous, more like. Mark married that Japanese woman and Daniel fucked her and then he screwed you before screwing you over so you went out with Mark and then you broke up with him and went back to Daniel before getting back with Mark and marrying him and now I’m shagging Daniel and – I’m getting dizzy.”  
  
“I’m not sure they’ll ever be close friends again, but I would, at the very least, like them to be civil.”  
  
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Good luck with that one; Mark still seems more furious about Daniel shagging you than his first wife. By the way, I had the most intense orgasm when he went up my arse. You?”  
  
I glanced at the food. “That salmon’s ready. Mrs Walker said a sizzlingly hot pan and no longer than six minutes in total.”  
  
“Who’s Mrs Walker? And what’s Mark like at anal? Is he better than Daniel?”  
  
“Mrs Walker’s our housekeeper. She’s an absolute treasure,” I said before wincing slightly. That sounded a bit Lady Mary in Downton Abbey.  
  
“Your housekeeper? OK. And that little sex question? You’ve got me by a nose, according to Daniel. What’s the ranking for those two men when it comes to anal? Mark or Daniel?”  
  
“Mark and I have a fantastic sex life; his upper lip isn’t the only thing that’s permanently stiff,” I said with a wink. “Let’s go before the boys draw duelling pistols.”

 

**9.36 pm.**

 

“We found out after our wedding, just before we flew off on our honeymoon,” Mark said in answer to Daniel’s query.  
  
We were still outside in the softly-lit garden enjoying drinks and dessert beneath a beautiful twilight sky.  
  
“Remember Shazzer, Jude and Tom? The friends you met at my blue soup dinner? Well, apparently it had been on TV and in the papers, but Shazzer saw it on Facebook and rang Tom and he called Jude and then Shazzer called me and we were just screaming at each other down the phone because it was such good news! With all the preparations for the wedding, we’d all missed it when it was on the telly.”  
  
“It made headlines at Hard News but I was still out of the country when it broke. I landed at Heathrow very late in the evening - the night before Bridge and Mark’s wedding.”  
  
“Good to hear I’m so newsworthy; augurs well for my forthcoming book and/or movie even if balding Hugh Laurie is cast as me, which he’d better bloody well not be.”  
  
“Stop being so petty,” I chided. “He’s an excellent actor. I thought he was very hot as House. I definitely would have.”  
  
“I would have too,” Miranda agreed. “But only when he was House. He was soooo sexy as an American, miserable bastard of a doctor.”  
  
“And that stubble. Phwoar!”  
  
Daniel rolled his eyes. “Can we get off Hugh Laurie now?”  
  
“He can get me off anytime he likes as long as he’s Dr House when it’s happening,” Miranda countered.  
  
“I refuse to spend any more time talking about Hugh Laurie. Where did you two go on honeymoon, Darcy?”  
  
“We didn’t want to leave William so we booked a luxury family resort in the Algarve,” Mark replied and reached for my hand.  
  
“Not much of a honeymoon if you’re changing dirty nappies every day,” Daniel stated with an involuntary wrinkle of his nose.  
  
“On the contrary, we had a glorious time. Didn’t we, darling?”  
  
“Every day and every night was heaven,” I replied, directing a meaningful look straight into Mark’s eyes. He got the message. In response, he discreetly caressed the back of my hand with his thumb.  
  
Miranda pointed to the baby monitor. “Your son’s been quiet the entire time we’ve been here. Amazing.”  
  
“Wouldn’t mind having him on my flights,” Daniel joked.  
  
I smiled. “Will’s the best baby ever. He’s absolutely adorable. And he’s been sleeping through the night since he was eight-months-old.”  
  
Mark released my hand and stood up. “I’m just going to quickly check on him. Excuse me for a moment.” And with that he strode back into the house.  
  
“Happy marriage, beautiful baby, career, huge house - even if the kitchen is filled with pink Post-it notes. Bridge, you’ve got it all. Bet you barely remember that crazy period with Jack,” Miranda said as she sipped her Champagne.  
  
Daniel pounced. “What ‘crazy period with Jack’? Who’s Jack? The best man at your wedding? The American billionaire?”  
  
Oh fucketty fuck.  
  
I made a great show of clearing the table. “It’s sort of a funny story, sort of, Daniel. Y’see, I met Jack at a music festival . . .”  
  
“That’s what Darcy said.”  
  
“We got on very well, if you know what I mean . . .”  
  
“You shagged him.”  
  
“And then a week later, Mark and I met up at the christening of our godchild, Jude’s youngest, and we also, errrrm, danced the Paphian jig . . .”  
  
“You shagged him too.”  
  
“And then shortly after that I discovered I was pregnant but – and this is where it all gets rather, kind of, sort of amusing – I wasn’t sure who’d fathered my baby. Turns out I’d used very, very old dolphin-friendly condoms so until we knew for certain, we were kind of, sort of, pretty much a ménage à trois. Minus the sex.”  
  
“You went your entire pregnancy without knowing who the father was?”  
  
“Errrm, yes.”  
  
“And the two men were also completely in the dark?”  
  
“Pretty much, yes.”  
  
“Fuck me! What a mess. Don’t ever change, Jones.”  
  
“Thankfully it all worked out in the end, Daniel. They had a beautiful wedding. Where’s your loo, Bridge?”  
  
“There’s one on this floor but I think Mark’s using it. If he is, take the stairs and it’s the first on the left.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
As we watched her leave I said, “Isn’t Miranda fab?”  
  
“She’s a bloody good shag,” Daniel replied with a gulp of his whisky. “Talking of bloody good shags, do you remember the last time you had one? Was it with Jack?”  
  
“You just can’t resist having a dig at Mark, can you?”  
  
“You made everything with Darcy sound so Mills & Boon when in actual fact, it was quite the opposite.”  
  
“It’s not as if I lied to you. I just gave you the edited version.”  
  
“And left out some choice details.”  
  
I fiddled with my glass. “Well, it was so busy that day. Didn’t have time to go into it all.”  
  
Daniel refused to let it go. “So Darcy divorced wife number two and married you after finding out he was the father? It’ll never last, Jones.”  
  
“We got married because we love each other. And by the way, he vowed to love my baby whether he was the biological father or not, something Jack could not do. Not that I blame Jack – he knew I didn’t love him. He’s a nice man and I hope he finds a nice woman.”   
  
“Saint Mark of Darcy strikes again and slays anyone who dares to vie for Bridget Jones’ libido,” he baited in a mocking tone.  
  
Somewhat ticked off with him, I couldn’t help raising my voice in response.  
  
“Mark has the biggest heart and the biggest dick and he’s an insatiable sex-god who can make me come just by looking at me. Daniel, sweetheart, stop being a naughty boy about Mark. And ease up on the whisky; you need to get it up for Miranda later.”  
  
Daniel smirked and gestured over my shoulder; I turned around and saw Mark and Miranda rooted to the spot. I knew by the expressions on their faces that I’d been overheard.  
  
Oh shit.  
  
We stood as they once again took their seats. I quickly forced a smile and in a tone sweeter than saccharin asked: “Would anyone like coffee?”

  

**10.23 pm.**

 

“Brissssh, Mark, thank you for a delissssh dinner. Fab hosts,” Miranda slurred. I hugged her while Mark thanked her for coming.  
  
“Extremely charming evening,” Daniel declared with his trademark smoothness as Mark opened the front door and shook his hand.  
  
Turning my attention to Daniel, I pecked him on the cheek. “It was lovely to see you. I’m glad you came along with Miranda.”  
  
I stood by Mark’s side and we waved them off as their taxi pulled away.  
  
In the aftermath of my cringy outburst about Mark’s dick, we had all acted with typical English reserve – nobody mentioned it or alluded to it in any way. Not even Miranda.  
  
“Crikey. What an evening,” Mark said after shutting the door.   
  
“I think it went well. Or at least, as well as can be expected with Daniel here too.”  
  
“How long do you think they’ll last?”  
  
I shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m more worried about her or him. I think him. She’s too much for most men – even Daniel.”  
  
As Mark headed for the stairs, I said: “I’ll be up in a minute. I’m just going to load the dishwasher and look in on Will.”  
  
“Don’t be too long or I’ll start without you,” he joked with a waggle of his eyebrows.  
  
I laughed and ambled into our kitchen where the Post-it notes made their usual visual statement. As I got on with the job in hand, I reflected on the last couple of hours.  
  
  
I HAD NOT  
  
Served my guests blue soup or blue soup equivalent.  
  
Started a fire when Mark and I blowtorched the crème brûlées.  
  
Set off the smugometer with non-stop chat about babies to non-parent guests.  
  
Knocked over and broken any glasses.  
  
Got shit-faced.  
  
Played footsie with Mark at the table.   
  
Used my mobile phone (and requested same from everyone).

  
I HAD  
  
Spied on Mark and Daniel.  
  
Made a jug of Pimms.  
  
Chided Daniel.  
  
Remembered not to microwave the gazpacho.  
  
Arranged watercress salad and polenta croutons v.prettily on the plates.  
  
Told everyone my husband has a big dick.  
  
Made v.nice coffee.  
  
On balance: a rip-roaring, riotous, success of an evening. Hurrah! Am hostess with the mostest.  
  
And knowing Mark was in bed raring to go has also made me the hostess with the moistest. Will see to our son first and then will give his father a good seeing-to.  
  
Just remembered self promised him ‘anything’ – wonder what he’ll want us to do? Hmmm.  
  
One thing’s for certain, it will never be a threesome. Daniel soooo would have if I’d said yes in Thailand (not a chance in hell. Not into group sex). However Mark cannot bear even the thought of me with anyone but him.  

 

 **1.24 am.**

 

“When you said ‘anything’ – you really bloody meant it, Bridget.”  
  
Finally spent and shag-drunk, we lay in each other’s arms.  
  
“Wow at us! Nice boys don’t do things like that and nice girls don’t do things like that either, Mark.”  
  
“Oh yes they fucking do,” he insisted with a smile. “In all the years I’ve known you, despite your needless body issues, you have never been sexually inhibited. Any wonder I can never get enough of you?”  
  
“Lucky me,” I sighed contentedly.  
  
“No. Lucky us.”  
  
I smoothed his hair affectionately. “I’m guessing I had a much better time keeping my promise than you did, Mark.”   
  
“True. But my reward from you made it all worthwhile,” he said as he dropped a kiss on my forehead. “By the way, I’m not averse to a weekly ‘anything goes’ sexual incentive to put the bins out.”  
  
“Seeing Daniel again wasn’t as bad as you’d feared. Admit it.”  
  
“I think I’ve reluctantly accepted that like a bad case of genital herpes, he’s never going away for good.”  
  
“I knew you’d come around eventually,” I said dryly. As if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, I added, “So what did you and Daniel talk about?”  
  
“You. Me. Him. Us. Mika. Mostly you. Cleaver told me about his attempt to seduce you.”  
  
I frowned. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”  
  
“After you ended our engagement. He said you were squiffy and called out my name while he was touching you.”  
  
“I don’t remember that. Ouch! Poor Daniel. Not exactly an ego boost.”  
  
“Not for him, no,” Mark said and nuzzled my neck. “But that and hearing you tell Cleaver I’m, er, let’s say well-endowed, and can make you come just by looking at you? Now there’s an ego boost.”  
  
“Gaaaah! You weren’t supposed to hear that. I had to tell him off – he was being a wanker.”  
  
“Of course he was. That’s Cleaver.”  
  
I snuggled closer. “If I hadn’t returned to Hard News, we wouldn’t have crossed paths so soon.”  
  
“Don’t remind me.”  
  
“But he also unintentionally helped me shut Malice up once and for all. Strange how things work out.”  
  
“Malice?” he queried.  
  
“It’s what I call Alice Peabody.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Believe me, I’ve called her far worse than that.”  
  
“If there is a Hollywood movie, I really hope they cast Hugh Laurie. That would piss Cleaver off forever,” Mark said as his hand wandered idly over my bum. “But who would play you?”  
  
“Me?” I exclaimed in surprise. “I doubt I’ll be popping up.”  
  
“It’s Hollywood. There’s always a love interest – it’s an unwritten rule,” he reasoned. “If you’re in his book, you’ll be in the movie. My money’s on Jennifer Aniston.”  
  
“Darling, she can’t play me – she’s an American.”   
  
“Hugh Laurie won awards and acclaim for playing an American. And he went to Cambridge. It’s acting, my love.”  
  
I paused for a second before asking, “And what if you’re in his book?”  
  
Mark did a double take. “Hell will freeze over before Cleaver writes my name.”  
  
“Well, if he does, I will personally petition for George Clooney. But it’s far more likely to be someone like Kenneth Branagh. Urgh.”  
  
“What’s that ‘urgh’ for? He’s an excellent actor. Would be jolly good fun to be portrayed by a knighted star.”  
  
“But he’s got no lips!” I cried. “His mouth is just a slit. Also, he’s too short and he’s really not very sexy.”  
  
“Let’s hope Sir Kenneth never finds out just how much he leaves you cold,” Mark said with a chuckle. “If there is a film and if I do make an appearance, I will find myself in the strange position of having to root for an actor who turns my wife on.”  
  
“Oh my God, yes! I want to look at the movie Mark Darcy and slide off my cinema seat.”  
  
“Hold that sentiment until I wake in the morning and shag you senseless. I’m so tired now; I don’t think I could get it up again even if we hired a crane to assist.” Mark switched off the lamp and gave me a kiss.  
  
“Well done on the wonderful dinner. You were an excellent hostess and the menu was perfect. Good night, darling,”  
  
“G’night.” 

 

 **3.18 am.**  

 

Opened my eyes feeling slightly disorientated. What the fuck? I looked around and then realised it wasn’t real. I’d woken from a strange dream in which Mark and I had showered together in what we’d worn at our dinner party.   
  
Was a lovely, sexy dream – v.erotic. Mmmmmm.  
  
We’d snogged passionately, pressing our bodies tightly together as the water streamed down, soaking our clothes and revealing our . . .  
  
Eureka! Why didn’t I think of it before? Clearly the thought of Kenneth Branagh’s lips had killed every sexual hormone in my body.  
  
“Mark?” I whispered. “Are you awake?” The only response was deep breaths; he was sound asleep. Not really a surprise considering that marathon ‘anything goes’ shagathon of ours. Where does he get his stamina from? Once is never enough. Not that self is complaining. Not. At. All.  
  
I smiled, snuggled closer and flashed back to my dream. It was hotttttttttt. Wish Mark would wake up now instead of hours from now. Mmmmmmm.  
  
I’ll tell him about my fantasy and how it sparked my eureka moment when he wakes: tall, dark, handsome, brown eyes - phwoar!  
  
He’d be perfect if Daniel’s movie ever gets off the ground with human rights barrister Mark Darcy QC among the cast . . .

**The End**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have so much respect for fic writers who publish story after story in a fandom – this is only my second and it took so much out of me! 
> 
> No surprise to learn it was inspired by that newspaper article at the end of Bridget Jones’s Baby. How would Daniel react after returning to Blighty and discovering his ex-girlfriend (of sorts) is now his bitter rival’s wife and the mother of Mark’s son? This is what I asked myself; I hope this story is one possible answer.
> 
> First thing I wrote was Mark and Daniel’s conversation but expanding it from there was the challenge – I was blocked for ages. Couldn’t think how they’d plausibly have that exchange until yet another BJB re-watch.
> 
> I had a slight formatting issue for the dual dialogue between Bridget and Miranda during Daniel's interview. I hope it's readable and understandable - that's the best I could get it in Word. 
> 
> The timeline jumps around a little at the beginning – deliberately so. I was trying to delay the Daniel reveal for as long as possible. However, I do hope it doesn’t detract too much from any enjoyment derived from this story. I tried to make it as easy as possible to follow – if not, a second reading will make it clearer. 
> 
> I’m British so there are some very British references, but Google is your friend . . . 
> 
> Did a Google search and looked at the BJB script but no idea if Bridget is Mrs Darcy or a double-barrelled Mrs Jones-Darcy. Not reading Mad About The Boy to find out so I’ve gone with Mrs Darcy. 
> 
> Baby Will's nickname is deliberate as I want to totally differentiate between movies universe and book universe - that's why he's not called Billy. Also on the subject of names, I’ve given Miranda one. Couldn’t find it anywhere in the script, the 4th book or on Google so to reflect the fab Sarah Solemani’s heritage, I opted for a Jewish surname. Thanks for reading!


End file.
